


Composed by Hauser and Šulić

by 2CELLOSFanFiction



Category: 2Cellos
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:26:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2CELLOSFanFiction/pseuds/2CELLOSFanFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Journey through an artists rendering of the life of one of the greatest cellists of this era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composed by Hauser and Šulić

“What are you looking at, Stjepan?” She looked down at her son, at the spirited child that  
clung to the windowsill like a shadow. His eyes were on the moon again. They were full of light  
and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was possessed by it. “It’s time for you to sleep,” she  
whispered, not quite sure he would hear.  
He turned from the gentle caress of the moonbeams and smiled at her. The light stayed  
inside him just a hair longer than it should have and she was afraid. This boy, this crazy little  
boy, was haunted by something she couldn’t fathom. A smile spread slowly across his face, one  
that held an eternity of secrets.  
“Mama, they’re out there. She told me. They’re waiting for me to find them,” he  
whispered in reverence.  
She looked at her son a little fearfully, for it was not common for a child to speak of such  
things. He crawled into his bed and watched the sky as his mother pulled the blanket up to his  
chin.  
“Does she have a soul too, mama?”  
“I don’t think so, Stjepan.”  
“Then how does she speak to me?”  
She didn’t know what to say to him. He was an unusual child, always asking these things  
about the night, about the moon. She got up to leave but stood in the doorway for a minute and  
watched her son. He wasn’t like his siblings. He didn’t see the world the way they did, the  
normal way; this one was different, special…  
Stjepan had once positioned his bed so he could watch the night sky as he waited for  
sleep, and watch it he did, until his eyes were too heavy to keep open. The vastness of it was  
something that filled him with awe. There were too many stars to count and yet he tried, night  
after night. Sometimes they laid themselves out like notes of a symphony, and he would pass the  
time imagining the glory of their song, but most nights the depths spoke to him of faraway lands  
and secrets yet to be discovered.  
People didn’t understand how he felt what he did. They didn’t get that the world was  
made up of more than dust and water. But for this boy the night was unbound in the cosmos,  
untethered from everything else in existence; the night was an entirely new dimension that only  
he had the power to enter. In this place, she lived, and she pulled at his soul the way she did the  
sea, and never stopped whispering to him her tender promises. It was all his, all his domain, and  
in time, it would all be his kingdom.  
Most people had viewed this kind of solitary existence as a lonely, depressing one, but  
not Stjepan. The moon was his friend, his confidant, his everything. It was she alone that knew  
how to touch his heart, how to stir his soul, and she did it so completely that nothing else seemed  
capable of touching him in the same way…  
…until that fateful day that he first heard the hauntingly warm notes of the cello. The  
hollow resonation of the mid-range was perfectly matched to who he was and the heights and  
depths she could reach were perfectly tuned to the complexity of what he saw in the universe  
each night.  
He would not only remember that day for the rest of his life, that day when his deepest  
emotions were spoken through an instrument so simplistically that he was brought to tears, but  
would draw on it when the world was too lonely, and the moon too far away.  
He had asked his parents to give him such a gift, begged in the way all children do. There  
were promises made, bargains and pleadings, and though they were reluctant, they gave in. Time  
wouldn’t move fast enough for this little boy. The passing days felt like weeks and he filled his  
obsession by pretending to be the greats he heard. It had to be enough.  
Finally she stood in front of him, timid and shy yet proud. He ran his hands over her  
polished grain, over her strings and pegs, up her neck and down the incredible curve of the f  
holes that indicated the unchanging, uncompromised craft and history of his other half. Through  
her the world would know what it was that he thought and felt. It wasn’t until then that he knew  
what the moon had meant when she spoke of the world; this was the key to it all…  
Conformity wasn’t his forte in the least bit. He wanted to play what the moon put in his  
heart, not what he was told to play, and found himself in regular trouble from it. Still, their  
stuffy, gray lessons sunk in and stuck. Their passion, their strict aptitude might have hurt  
tremendously, but he had her, his cello, to find comfort in. She deserved his perfection, deserved  
his steady hand and nimble fingers, and regardless of how many nights he plotted the demise of  
those instructors, he could never commit to it because of her.  
He stared out the window again, watched the moon rise over the hills and city roofs, over  
the infinite landscape, and knew that he was doing what needed to be done to get where he  
wanted to be. His hands weren’t perfect yet, but he still took out his cello and played her under  
the moonlight. The notes flew from the two of them like liquid…  
They all said he was the best. His hands were perfect, his arms accustomed to the motion  
of playing, but he didn’t believe them. Wins had come like clockwork and were hardly a surprise  
anymore but it had been too easy. The pieces he played were nothing like the women he went  
after. The women either took him in or they didn’t. The music though, that was worth the time  
and attention that he had to spend studying and mastering each movement. Women just weren’t  
that complex.  
It was disappointing, really. The high he got from playing was nothing compared to the  
girls and women that fawned over him during the show and after. He gave them what they  
wanted, little flirtations, little shocks of electricity when their eyes met, and sometimes they gave  
him what he wanted.  
He didn’t understand why Luka didn’t go after them too. They were so easy. The way  
they looked at the two of them night after night, the things they sent him in messages both public  
and private…surely Luka had those too, and yet he didn’t chase them. He couldn’t understand it,  
refused to understand it, and yet it never changed. One after another he buried himself in those  
women, pretended they were something they weren’t, and he still couldn’t find the completion  
that the other two had…  
Boredom was his enemy. When he was bored, he found trouble. It had been that way  
since he was a boy, throughout his schooling, and hadn’t stopped. This boredom, though, this  
wasn’t as easily sated as the others. He couldn’t push out some rock on his cello and feel better  
from the rebellion, because there was nothing to rebel against. He’d won all the awards he could  
ever want, so there was no point competing. He had women, ones that would do anything for  
him, but they grew tiresome, stale and flat, like yesterday’s supper. He couldn’t turn to food  
because he didn’t want to put the weight back on that he’d finally managed to put off and  
couldn’t drink because it messed with him. There was nothing new or exciting in his life  
anymore…  
It was night, some lonely hour after midnight and before dawn, and he couldn’t sleep.  
Part of him didn’t want to, didn’t want to see those old horrors again. The girls in America would  
be awake, were always ready to please him and take away his troubles, but he didn’t want that  
again. He wanted the simplicity that was his life before he had a cell phone, before technology  
took over everything, including his instrument.  
He got out of his bed on the bus and went out to the dark common area. Everybody was  
asleep; the night’s journey was over since they were where the next show was, and though his  
fingers twitched with the need to keep occupied, he wasn’t going to take out his cello. The guys  
deserved to get what sleep they could.  
Light grazed his face and found his eyes. He looked out the window. The moon had just  
broken across the frame and was nearly full. He went back to his bed, slipped on his pants and  
shoes and headed out. As with every other night he’d walked, there was no destination, no frame  
of time, just a solitary quest for peace.  
The moon-kissed landscape was exactly the same that it had been all those years ago, the  
city was at rest but the flowers seemed to smell extra fragrant, the air itself was extra sweet. He  
walked until he found a park that was bathed in the moonlight and sat on a bench. The stars  
twinkled lovingly and the moon shone over everything with a soft, clear light. As long as she  
was there, he wasn’t alone, but he also wished there was somebody else with him, somebody that  
knew how to share this without needing to talk or move, without doing anything but existing in  
the delicate balance alongside him.  
Instead of feeling melancholy, he started to feel that sense of fulfillment again. He looked  
up at the moon with tears in the corners of his eyes. She was speaking to him again, whispering  
of love yet to be found, of people yet to meet and places yet to be seen. The whole world was  
waiting for him, and somewhere within it, love was too. Maybe it would happen tomorrow,  
maybe it would happen in the next town or the next country, but it was out there and waiting to  
be discovered.  
A tune came to him then, powerful and rich, ideal for his cello. He couldn’t remember if  
he’d heard it before, but he knew he hadn’t played it before. He made his way back through the  
streets, back to the bus where he could write it all out. Luka would look it over in the morning,  
suggest something to change, add to it, perfect it, and together they would make it theirs. He had  
been the perfect partner and friend through everything and with this, they would embark on a  
new leg of their profession. ‘Composed by Stjepan Hauser and Luka Šulić,’ he liked the sound of  
that. This would be their baby, the start of something nobody else could touch. Theirs alone.


End file.
